Authors: Emma Becker
Monsieur (3 page)
MONSIEUR
Thank you for letting me see the story â although I will still want to acquire a copy . . . and get it signed . . .
You're only twenty? What have you read? How have you lived? I'd love to know how all this made its way into your mind. It's not that ingenuous â not always at any rate, with the way you move so effortlessly from âpussy' to âcunt' . . .
You intrigue me. And your uncle failed to understand you were Lucie? . . . Maybe that's a good thing . . .
Do tell me your theories on the erotic nature of speech. George Steiner, in a recent piece of writing titled, I think,
My Unwritten Books
, devotes a whole chapter to the subject, although it's more about the way the colour of eroticism varies according to the language it's written in.
âTotal disposal' covers a lot of ground, but I like it. And âalong the way'.
See you soon.
PS I can't resist sending you this poem by Baudelaire, â
The Jewels
'.
The lovely one was naked and, knowing well my prayer,
She wore her loud bright armoury of jewels.
They evoked in her the savage and victorious air
Of Moorish concubines upon a holiday.
When it gives forth, being shaken, its gay mocking noise,
This world of metal and of stone, aflare in the night,
Excites me monstrously, for chiefest of my joys
Is the luxurious commingling of sound and light.
Relaxed among the pillows, she looked down at me
And let herself be gazed upon at leisure â as if
Lulled by my wordless adoration, like the sea
Washing perpetually about the foot of a cliff.
Slowly, regarding me like a trained leopardess,
She slouched into successive poses. A certain ease,
A certain candour coupled with lasciviousness,
Lent a new charm to the old metamorphoses.
The whole lithe harmony of loins, hips, buttocks, thighs,
Tawny and sleek, and undulant as the neck of a swan,
Began to move hypnotically before my eyes:
And her large breasts, those fruits I have grown lean upon,
I saw float towards me, tempting as the angels of hell,
To win my soul in thraldom to their dark caprice
Once more, and lure it down from the high citadel
Where, calm and solitary, it thought to have found peace.
She stretched and reared, and made herself all belly. In truth,
It was as if some playful artist had joined the stout
Hips of Antiope to the torso of a youth! . . .
The room grew dark, the lamp having flickered and gone out,
And now the whispering fire that had begun to die,
Falling in lucent embers, was all the light therein â
And when it heaved at moments a flamboyant sigh
It inundated as with blood her amber skin.
ELLIE
Les Fleurs du mal
, Monsieur! Your aim is true! This is why I read: for such epiphanies.
My theory of formality: well, the word âtheory' is possibly a bit far-fetched. Rather some sort of aesthetic of formality that I've fine-tuned as I've grown up. At the age when I began to take an interest in men I noted there was a somewhat heady charm in formal speech, a tension that had, as you pointed out, an ambiguous effect on the relationships. If you stick for some time to that unnecessary formality there's a remarkable change in the atmosphere when you switch to informality. And doesn't it make for an ironic paradox? To be formal in a certain context can almost become a form of indecency. I hope I'm making myself clear, I'm quite tired this evening . . .
The questions you raise are thorny. What I have seen, what I have known . . . both a lot and not much. Enough, I believe, to have written what you have read, not enough to be willing to use âcunt' from the very beginning of the story. I am now twenty, not eighteen, as I was when that story was published, and I think I'm more articulate now. I hope so. It would be a pain to harbour such love for words and not be able to use them properly . . .
What I have known: I don't believe it's necessary to have known many men to be able to write about them. Calaferte was almost sixty when he wrote
La Mécanique des femmes
, and even though I guess he must have spent many hours in his own bed, I detected several awkward mistakes in his descriptions, which betrayed a still imperfect knowledge of women. For instance, there is a line where he has a woman saying something like âAnyway, if you hadn't come round, I would have grabbed the first man I saw. Just a cock.' At my age, and with the experience I have (for what it's worth), I am sure that a woman cannot crave only a cock and nothing else. I believe that female desire, however complex and fleeting it might be, has some sort of life instinct that draws us towards tenderness with men, even though at the same time we are motivated by an animal need to be filled. I'm trying to say that I've never desired just a piece of a man's body. And many women I know cannot conceive of a cock with no torso, back, hands, smell and breath, and the words of the man that go with them.
So, writing about men when I'm only twenty . . . There are likely to be mistakes in what I write, but I don't believe that knowledge is the foundation stone of the whole malarkey. It's not only about the desire to know men â a task that will never be completed anyway â it's the intention that counts: the willingness to dive head first into their world of large hands and dark voices in an attempt to understand them. For now, it seems to me to be a beautiful vocation.
What have I read? A lot. The story you've seen was, I think, fairly influenced by Calaferte, who was something of a revelation to me. I'd found his book a few months earlier in our cellar, and liked the way he described male flesh. At the time, you see, I was with a boy, had been for a year, and wanted to write all sorts of things for him, but he was incapable of writing a single line in response. So when
Stupre
suggested publishing me, I took great pleasure in reversing the roles . . . As you correctly guessed, there is something of Lucie in me, and that scene actually took place. I must say I'm curious to learn how you came to that conclusion.
I've also read two or three titles by de Sade, but I'm no great fan, and I feel I know all there is to know about him having just read
Philosophy In the Bedroom
and
120 Days
. Which a friend of mine, who is heavily into de Sade, finds particularly annoying . . . But, then, this is a guy who hates Queen and the Beatles.
Bataille, of course. I loved
The Dead Man
, although the Régine Deforges adaptation was stupendously poor.
My Mother
affected me a lot, but I'm still not totally into it: Bataille's literary style is awkward.
On the other hand, it bugs me that I'm telling you a lot and still feel I have so much more to say. But I know so little about you. What a pity. Worth a coffee? Or a glass of wine? I have so many questions for you. I have an indecent fascination with men who read. Particularly these books. An interest in erotica is very telling. But let's have this conversation another time â what if you had nothing to say? Am I boring you?
As I mentioned, I remain at your disposal whenever you'd like.
You have my number.
Ellie
(I don't think I'm boring. I can even be very funny, given the chance. I hope.)
MONSIEUR
I have to admit I was waiting for your mail with a guilty sort of impatience.
I firmly believe that, in spite of your delicious, impressive and precocious sensibility, time and experience do allow us to expand our erotic universe. I discovered the erotic in literature when I was ten and came across Pierre Louys. At the time, he seemed to me to be the
nec plus ultra
of subversion. I then began reading a lot and some of my reading revealed sensations, excitement, emotions I couldn't understand and would only come to understand much later. I do believe, in fact I know, that a woman under the right circumstances, when things are intense enough, can desire any old cock . . . I've witnessed it, lived through it, have been told so, even if, as you correctly point out, she is also thinking of a back, a smell and all those things you write so well about. But there is a moment when everything teeters, and in a flash the object of desire can, in a marvellous way, swing in another direction, change: anyone, any cock, and that's what Calaferte is writing about.
De Sade established the early principles others built upon and his writing is not very sensual, which is a bit shocking for us today. But what he writes about is fundamental. It's about the disconnect that eroticism generates, the proximity of violence.
And then there is Bataille, whom you are aware of. To understand the theory better you must read
Eroticism
. And
Story of the Eye
is sublime,
Madame Edwarda
too . . .
I knew you were Lucie after I spent time looking at your photos on Facebook with awe â your smile, your eyes, your skin.
Write to me soon.
PS Don't show my mails to your uncle . . .
My shaft against your cheek
Helmet grazing your ear
Slowly lick my scrotum
Your tongue soft as water
Your tongue raw like a butcher-woman
Red like meat
Tip like a smiling bird,
My shaft leaking spittle
Your rear is my goddess
Opening like your mouth
I adore it like the sky
I worship it like fire
I drink inside your tear
I spread out your naked legs
I open them like a book
Where I can read my death
Babette had just rolled herself a cigarette and begun smoking it, when I yelped.
âWhat? What?' she cried out, springing to my side.
âI've just received a disgusting poem,' I squeaked, half smiling, reading the first lines, amusement mixed with loathing. âA poem about cock slapping.'
I answered him hurriedly, Babette endlessly repeating âshaft' and âscrotum' behind me. Then she said: âDon't you see? That man is already in your bed. Worse, he's thoroughly enjoying himself there.'
ELLIE
My dear, of course no one is aware of anything, and least of all my angelic uncle . . .
The final verses are rather pretty . . . When can I see you?
MONSIEUR
I'm certainly keen to see you but shouldn't we wait a little longer?
ELLIE
Wait? Why should we? Do you want some more poems?
MONSIEUR
There is something magical in discussing crude things without knowing each other . . . but I know I won't be able to resist much longer . . .
âI like your first name. Ellie. Ellie. Ellie. Ellie.'
âA pleasant mantra. But it doesn't surprise me â I've always known I had a bedroom name.'
âStrange how different you sound from your texts.'
âDifferent? Would you like me to be wittier?'
âWitty? How funny . . . No, I like you as you are.'
âBut still, you haven't asked to meet me.'
âIt's all I dream about . . . but I'm enjoying our conversations . . .'
âThis . . . literary tension is quite nice. Keeps the tummy warm.'
âExactly. Delicious . . . Tuesday morning?'
âWhat a good idea!'
âWhere could we meet?'
(Maybe Monsieur is wrong to provide me with so much rope. Maybe Babette was wrong to leave so early. Once I'm alone, I promptly abandon all my principles.)
I do have an idea, but you might find it indecent.'
âNothing is indecent â and, anyway, I like indecency. Where?'
âI often work in hotel rooms. It's too noisy at home. So really I'm just inviting you to meet me at my office. I'm often in the fifteenth, rue des Volontaires.'
âFine with me . . . How intriguing. Rue des Volontaires, then. I have to go. Write to me again.'
âI will.'
âSometimes in my dreams . . .'
âReport everything to the doctor tomorrow.'
ELLIE
My dear,
A late response to a point in your letter that was bothering me.
You wish to thwart my youthful assumptions with your manly experience. Fine. So, a woman can crave a cock. I shall eagerly await the moment when this comes true, although I just can't see myself ever saying, âAnyone, any cock.'
Or maybe it's already happened to me. Although to reach such a state of mind and body, I must have been travelling through Ohio or somewhere close.
Damn it, what about the poetry of it? It pains me to believe that a woman can turn into such an animal that all she can conceive of is that part, however fundamental, of a man.
Although I'd have to forget all those nights I've spent tossing and turning in my bed, in torment, nailed to my sheets in a crucified pattern of passion, forever hungry. But maybe you're right. Maybe that's all I was seeking . . . insofar as I spent the evening with a girlfriend who had once experienced the very same thing. All very Peter Pan-like in the telling, but I'm sure you'll appreciate it. It takes place at night, then. Not just a single night, as there are many of them. A dark night, late, and the Young One on the first floor, confined to her blue childhood room, is twisting and turning between her damp sheets, unable to find peace, literally crucified by the imperative need to be filled, the craving that happens to be the only phenomenon capable of turning a young girl into a woman. Aware that any attempt at self-satisfaction is useless, as any climax thus achieved is just another hollow stimulation; as soon as the orgasm fades, all those thoughts would just come charging back. And, on so many occasions, I just lay there spread out in my bed for someone to open the door, anyone, and take me. Anyone, the son of the neighbour who seems to spend his life spying on me, the guy who comes to repair the boiler, a burglar even. The body of a man; no more, no less. The body of a man, the hands of a man and the demands of a man and the undescribable, delicious and profoundly shocking smell of man. That's what I was waiting for, when I was smaller, for Peter Pan to come to me. It's quite funny this Peter Pan story. Not long ago, I was writing to a boy, âDid you know that God invented nighties so that girls can wear them without knickers? I think that's why Peter Pan came to visit Wendy. The little slut must have been sleeping with her legs open.'
Have you read the actual J. M. Barrie novel? I believe it's both the most beautiful and saddest story about the death of children and their early erotic awakening. In fact, I'm quite certain she wore nothing under her nightie . . . and what about the pesky Captain Hook?
All this to explain how affecting the cravings of young girls are, despite the insomnia they generate, how despairing and full of paradoxes. I know so few girls of my age who have experienced a true orgasm in the arms of a man, âtrue orgasm' meaning one initiated simply by penetration.
I don't know the reasons. That at twenty our bodies are still unexplored continents? That boys of our own age don't properly understand us?
At any rate, the only pleasure available to us is of our own making. And when we experience that almost hysterical craving for sex, it's a total waste of time to try to reach it alone. The specific part of our body isn't screaming. It's a desire that takes root in the deepest part of the gut and demands, animal and instinctive, a man's gut to rush against, because that's the way things are. It's a physiological fact that we are made to be filled by a man. Whether we come or not is beside the point. So, in a way, you may be right. âJust a cock.'
It ain't easy â it's even humiliating â to be belittled thus. Reduced to crawling, begging.
Changing the subject, I just remembered you basically telling me you had no memory of discussing your taste for Mandiargues and Calaferte with my uncle. You did actually talk about it, one weekend in Jersey or thereabouts, with my mother. The facts, just the facts: six months ago, my mother caught me yet again with the Calaferte volume in my hands and said, âI don't understand how you can read that book over and over again!' To which I responded that it was possibly one of the most beautiful books ever written. And I think she answered, âHow funny. You'd get on well with one of Philippe's colleagues.'
Me : â?'
Mum: âOne of the surgeons who works at the clinic. He's heavily into erotic literature.'
There you are. That's why we've been writing all these mails over the past days. Of course no one else needs to know. But you are as conscious of that as I am.
3.30 a.m.
Once again, do forgive me for the clumsy style and any spelling mistakes. It's that time of night when I'm no longer quite in control of myself . . .
Ellie